Memories are Sticky

Memories are Sticky

Memories are sticky and
left alone they attract ants like
candy on the sidewalk.
Some we hang on to while we
brush the ants away.
Others we wish to be released from,
setting us free from the sweets of
another time
that have long ago been discontinued.

Yet, sitting in one place,
never venturing between the forests and
the sea,
we download another app,
fish for something to keep our minds
from alighting on friends now gone,
backs now turned,
the doorbell that never rings,
the endless sameness of things.
To my shame I admit,
I sit stuck in one place too long.

I could knock on your door, I know.
I could phone you, though
disembodied voices unnerve me.
Would you unbreak my heart if I
helped unbreak yours?

Dreams are thin as spider silk,
left alone they disappear like water
in the sun.
Some we write down over again,
some we forget and weep formless.
Everybody knows but no one asks
which dreams might be redeemed,
and which cling like cobwebs and dust.

We were pretty once. We were undeterred.
We were starlight and moonbeams,
we were more than we seemed and less
than our egos allowed. We dipped our
toes
in every stream.

We were unafraid to dream.

Dusty Portraits

Dusty Portraits

(“And He said to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer’; but you are making it a robbers’ den.’” Matthew 21:13)

Take it down off the shelf, the dust has dulled the first surprise
of twirling light that danced off the portrait. Do you remember the day?
No, I do not mean to say the day you first viewed the captured image
all framed and retouched, your hair and his perfectly swept with baby
boys balanced on your laps, saliva gluing their hair to their foreheads.

No, I do not mean that moment. Do you remember the day the photo
was taken? Dressed up like you were going to church, or out to the restaurant
you could only afford a time or two per year. You wore the dress he
always told you matched your perfect eyes like the sky. He put on
the shirt and vest, dressed up, but still autographed with his personal style.
You chose the boy’s clothes, nearly identical. Do you remember

The photographer’s name?

Do you still hear the patience as he focused lights and reflectors,
tilted chins up or down, tickled the boys to erase any frowns,
and then tried to capture the moment between tears and laughter
that left all of you ready to capture a second of a day 25 years ago

That you probably do not remember.

And, my Father, will You look at me like You looked at me then?
She still is my first true love, me her finest work of art. And we
added a last one, the smiling and serious princess of the clan.
She is miniature in blue in the next year’s portrait with boys nearly men now,
the shutter caught us all making faces at her tiny mouth.

And, my Father, will You hear our shyness then that
sometimes resembles regret just now? We thought we
knew every instruction and every how; we showed off
our certainty to every individual and every crowd (though
clouds darkened my private dreams). So, my Father, will
You please Be and please be the Why; I leave my Try and Because
behind, crossing the line into the First Love and Breath of
faith like

The first portrait we took on a day we probably
do not remember.

Between Simple Lines

Between Simple Lines

(“Blessed is the man who endures temptation, for when he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life, which the Lord promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

Between simple lines drawn upon
new pages in a denim-covered three ring binder
lie the words left behind by soft graphite,
the misspelled connection between mind
and paper.

Grammar may not matter, punctuation only
dots in the appropriate places,
but I have labored to remember faces that
made my breath sweeter for a moment,
my space occupied by more stories than permitted.

The sadness exposes every hand I tried to hold
but withdrew for fear my company or my geography
would finally wear thin. Many I hoped to begin
but never initiated the conversation; I only invested
in sure things.

Do not turn away in the fog; the breeze will reveal
the sharp shadows by afternoon. Do not forget the
names we played; the hills will inscribe
the poetry we drank like wine. Do not forsake
the cord we twined; the hardships have tried
to unravel our young design.

Could I open a cedar box and smell every day
that lined the sidewalk with crepe myrtle
I might dance when the money runs out,
I might laugh at the nervous cancellations,
and
I would certainly wait on the corner where the
tennis courts began to crack, to see
if the same friend I looked for a half hour before
school
still walked the same way home today.

On the Intrusive Nature of Memories, Images and Emotions from Decades Long Past

On the Intrusive Nature of Memories, Images and Emotions from Decades Long Past
(Subtitled: Cute Shoes)

Time and its images sang its parade starting
backwards from the day the thought sprang
from fertile soil, sun dark and warmed. No
entry in the line of fire engines and clowns,
marching bands from out of town
and free handouts from the church on the hill
could explain the train of thought that
held every moment captive to days of play
when a child’s world was larger than the
astronomer’s discovery of yet one more
outer boundary to the border no one has yet

Surveyed.

Every Crossroad

Every Crossroad

(“No, the message isn't far away at all. In fact, it's really near you. It's in your mouth and in your heart so that you can obey it.” Deuteronomy 31:6)

Every crossroad, I choose home;
every ballot I cast is for familiar abode.
Family or not, friends or foe, all I long for,
all ever sought is the address I remember,
the phone number still stenciled, a prefix of
letter, not numbers; every memory, I consider
home.

Thank you, cabin in the foothills,
chili simmering in the iron pot, hot to the touch,
just above the fireplace embers. Thank you, recipe
only mom and a first-class chef remembered.
(We found it handwritten in the basement the day
after she died.)

Nearly each smile, home is over my shoulder;
and true the same of tears, when I heard the shouting matches
muffled near bedtime. There were no fingers upon the wall
to interpret their meaning; mom and dad have taken them silent
to their graves.

Every sad day, I need home;
every joyful is a young sister and younger cousin
who rode upon my shoulders. I never said no,
the big brother and oldest, I was proud to provide
a higher vantage for a wide-eyed view of the parade.

Every wish is a wish for home;
each breath and every stutter
I only wonder why the houses I lived in
are shacks and lean-tos now in a world
more dangerous than family within
the walls and windows always warmer than winter
outside.

The people are leaving, walking away,
who populated home-days and nighttime respite.
Why are my memories, my paintings finished long ago,
so appealing, and unreachable
than today’s sofa that, I hope,

My children remember as home.

Every new day, I view home;
thank you, blessed sojourn that,
though my yesterday is dream and rotted nails,
tomorrow may be the reality,
the home my Father started ages and parallels,
dimensions and creations
ago.

Barbed-Wire Sunrise

Barbed-Wire Sunrise

I sing of freedom’s ring,
blazing blue and bullfrog green,
the mist that burned off the river so fast
You would swear the sun itself was a living thing.

I ask for friendship’s song,
toasted cheese and clam chowder,
board games, ground fog and pepsi all night long,
couches and blankets, quilts on the pasture hills
waiting to see the eastern glow, dawn’s early light,
we held hands, or laughed, or talked like philosophers
with white beards sitting on outcrops while
the rest pretended to listen.

You do not wish for innocence when
courage pushes you over barbed wire fences
one leg over the other
onto the next hill and still confused
that fences existed at all.

I want to early sing
again (late spring or summer early)
between the seams of yawns and dawn’s
late scene, peeking between clouds thin layers
like a paintbrush coating the hills with
the colors of the day.

I still wish for innocence since
age has made me wiser and I dare not snag
my new blue jeans on someone else’s fence
or risk the trespass my neighbor might not forgive.
But just want to play all night, scouring the cupboards
for the next late-night snack to take with us

To search the sky for the dawn again
(don’t ask me why, we never did then.)

Wait was Reward

Wait was Reward

(“Stay with God! Take heart. Don’t quit. I’ll say it again: Stay with God.” Psalm 27:14 [The Message])

I wandered down the marina path
to pondering street,
looking for the address that would
make my search complete.
But the numbers had been changed,
the houses rearranged,
and the sky laughed while I claimed
the neighborhood I remembered never looked like this.

I ambled up the hilly trail
to blackcrowing bluff,
seeking the scenery that would
stuff me full enough.
But the view was askew,
the shadows royal blue,
and the woods knew what I lost
after growing past childhood and daylight savings time.

I stood still, determined to find
the neighborhood park,
casting anticipation past
each beat of my heart.
And the wait was reward,
the face of the Lord
kissed me where I stayed. Recall
fades, but encircles, then, now and in-between.

On the Island

On the Island

(“Your Father in heaven feels the same way. He doesn’t want to lose even one of these simple believers.” Matthew 18:14 [The Message])

Now fall asleep on the island of disconnect in the late winter
and isolation. The later the day, the
more acute the angles,
until the corner closes in on
your final remaining choices.

Fastened to your memory, the daylights of a hundred previous friends
light one moment where tears fall like crystals loosely from
grandma’s costume necklace.

The winds scatter your artwork, photos of you and the cast,
the actors who seldom diluted affection in the days we thought
we had captured every treasure and the jewels we would ever need.

Now where are we, island upon island, waters so swift
we only wave between the ships floating loaded
past our cinnamon bread morning? The winds howled
last night and noon the same; afternoon’s laughter
may find broken sunshine teasing our hope.

I know we spoke years ago, and you have forgotten my name.
I know we read the lines, fastening new disguises on our faces,
never knowing the actor; we played the parts so well.

But today I‘d give everything I have to know you over again,
to keep you closer again, to speak you truer again, to let love
find me, find you, find the entire cast and crew, newly
loved like older we were. I would find the courage
to never lie; you would find the smile we packaged
when we heard the story you once only told. We would
light a campfire, scan the smoky hills past dusk

And wait the Father’s voice to bring us all back home,
the voice we waited a lifetime to recall.

We Do Mostly Ache

We Do Mostly Ache

(“But now they are longing for a better, that is, a heavenly country; accordingly, God is not ashamed of them—of being called their God. In fact, He has gotten a city ready for them.” Hebrews 11:16

It is difficult to find a chair to sit in hours at a time
that will not leave your back in knots wishing for a bit more slack on the line.
When it is more painful to sit than it is to walk in the sun
the brain should alarm the legs and arms about vitamin d and
dogs’ needs for walks along the riverbank.

There are homes we have slept in, rooms where we ate,
a bar in the kitchen, a table in the salle a manger,
a desk where we composed our essays last minute,
exposing our procrastinated love of backs against the wall.

There are yards unmowed, a quarter acre I was told,
dog runs never cleaned for weeks at a time,
There are picket fences in the front, neat rows of a
middle class pose, with a support in the corner
and two pickets along the street with finials missing;
one day would fix and paint it, but 10 years it stayed
incomplete.

Next door was a best friend, we learned boxing and
girls in his garage not mine. Ours was a flood of boxes
kept, mostly papers, of four children’s records, crayon alphabets
to eighth grade diplomas.

Further up the street, a brown-eyed beauty, a first crush,
and the first inspiration to write of love after a front-porch
talk with the moon tickling her reflecting hair.

But we cannot return, that home is not our own,
other have bought it and sold it and finally mown
the yard let go, the pickets removed, the garage the dream
of a cabinet-maker’s gear.

Home is not where our feet are planted, nor the floor underneath
morning meal. Home sometimes seldomly return after we
leave behind the chores we never quite finished at parents’
admonition.

We do mostly ache for at least a reflection of the loves we
found and lost in the house where (fire or frost), safety was
first discovered when we reflected full grown on the provisions,
the contentment, the awkward age and growing pains,
the favorite meals and cartoon bandaids,
all provided (looking back, yes, again) freely and
without cost.